The body named Satan was one of the vessels Kashchey deliberately crafted to meddle in Kazdel's affairs.
To Kashchey, it mattered little who ultimately rose to rule Kazdel.
But one thing was absolutely unacceptable—
it could never be the Demon King.
Why were the Sarkaz despised across all of Terra? Was it solely because of their heightened susceptibility to Oripathy?
That was part of it, yes.
But even nations known for their relative tolerance toward the Infected treated Sarkaz with rejection and suspicion.
The deeper reason traced back to ages past, when a deranged Demon King unleashed a catastrophic war.
That Demon King sought to enslave all other races, dragging Terra into chaos. By the nature of his power, most Sarkaz inevitably fell under his influence, joining his grand crusade of conquest.
The world burned during those years. Countless nations were drawn into the maelstrom.
The war eventually ended, of course—with the Demon King's defeat.
But the scars remained.
Hatred does not fade easily, least of all on the scale of nations and races.
From then on, Kazdel became an outcast among countries. Again and again, foreign powers crushed their land, and again and again the Sarkaz rebuilt from the ruins left behind.
During that war, Ursus too became a target of the Demon King's aggression.
The cost was heavy. Even Kashchey himself was forced to step onto the battlefield, fighting alongside other nations to finally bring the Demon King down.
And from that adversary, Kashchey drew an insight—
that it was possible to implant one's will deep into the subconscious sea of an entire people.
It was from this revelation that Kashchey began shaping his duchy, enforcing his strict system of entry and exclusion, carefully cultivating an environment where his influence could permeate the hearts of his subjects.
Even after centuries, his reach remained limited. Unlike the Demon King, he could not pass his will through bloodlines to bind a whole race beneath his sway.
His dominion was restricted to the walls of his own territory, maintained through ideology and meticulous social design. And even then, what he had achieved represented the utmost extent of control he could wield without risking collapse.
The Demon King, however, had swayed even outsiders beyond the Sarkaz.
On Terra, there was never a shortage of monsters.
---
The Demon King was, without question, both immensely dangerous and utterly uncontrollable.
His war had served as a dire warning—not just to Kashchey, but to all nations.
The reaction was instinctive. Conditioned.
Thus Kashchey would never allow another Demon King to become the sole voice of the Sarkaz.
He intended to strangle the current Demon King's influence before it could take root, while the pretender still lacked perfect dominion over Kazdel.
---
"Don't move. Who are you?"
A burly Sarkaz warrior glared at the red-haired man standing before him, his attire wholly out of place amidst the war-torn streets.
Rumors had been spreading across Kazdel in recent days. Whispers of a mysterious red-haired Sarkaz, clad in a black suit and tall hat, appearing in random corners of the land.
A strange merchant, peddling items that were not items—
but opportunities to fulfill one's dearest wishes.
And the price?
Oh, there was coin, yes. But money was never the true cost.
The true price lay in contracts.
Save the very first dying soul you encounter after your wish is granted.
Discard your most precious keepsake, ensuring it can never return to your hands.
For every life you take, repent once within your heart. The time limit: within a single week.
Betray your closest friend, or forgive the enemy you hate most.
Confess your love to the one you secretly admire, within one week of your wish being fulfilled.
Tell me—do you side with Theresis, with Theresa, or with no one at all?
And always, at the end:
If I'm in a good mood—free.
If I'm in a foul mood—farewell.
Some of these contracts were harsh, others deceptively simple—leaving no one able to guess what went through the merchant's mind.
Yet many swore they had met him, and that their wishes truly came to pass.
"Thanks to Mr. Satan, I'm no longer a wandering mercenary. Without him, I would never have the family I cherish today."
So said one former mercenary who wished for a peaceful life.
Satan had given him enough wealth to leave Kazdel and even live comfortably in Columbia. He and his lover were fortunate too—among the rare Sarkaz who were not Infected.
"Don't trade with him… it only brings misfortune."
Another voice warned. This came from a scavenger who had wished for boundless wealth.
He rejected Satan's offer of sufficient money, instead insisting on eternal riches. And so his wish was granted.
Now, his very senses were warped. Stones appeared to him as gold; foul water tasted like fine wine; the rags on his back felt like luxurious garments beyond anything he had ever known.
But he could not remain trapped in his fantasy alone. Others mocked him, humiliated him. Some mercenaries, seeking relief from the horrors of battle, forced rotten food down his throat—delighting in his sickeningly blissful expression as he savored the filth.
"Too much greed, and you will lose everything."
This was the warning he left with his dying breath, for those who still longed to bargain with Satan.
---
Of course, Kashchey did not take on Satan's guise merely out of boredom or cruel amusement.
His true aim was to prepare for the struggle against the Demon King—to toss scraps of garbage into the collective sea of Sarkaz consciousness.
Though he could not harm the Demon King directly, he could disgust him, distract him, and slow his grasp on power.
Satan's limbs and torso were covered with countless names—those of everyone who had made a contract with him.
Most prominently, one symbol appeared again and again in Sarkaz script: "I."
After all, in an age of endless war, a Sarkaz name was little more than a code.
Today one might be "Mad Dog" in a mercenary band; tomorrow, "Venom Wolf" in another.
But Satan's ability required a true name—a name the other recognized in their own heart—for the contract to take effect.
Thus, the word "I" claimed much of the space on his body.
All of it carefully hidden beneath his suit and gloves.
---
"Relax, relax. Surely you recognize me? After all, how many dare to dress so flashy—and so impractical—in Kazdel?"
Satan raised his hands high, showing he meant no harm.
"I'm only here to see if I might find a potential customer. You know, as a diligent merchant, sometimes I have to take the initiative to secure my sales."
"We have no customers for you here. Please leave."
The mercenary captain, Hoederer, answered cautiously.
He wanted no conflict with this mysterious peddler—but neither would he allow his men to enter into such dealings.
Bargains with Satan carried unknown risks. Hoederer had never believed in gifts falling from the sky.
"…Very well."
Satan removed his hat and gave a graceful bow.
This encounter with a mercenary band was mere coincidence. Why press the matter?
After all, a trade must be entered willingly by both sides.
Just as Satan was about to leave, a sudden, uncertain female voice rang out:
"Satan?"